


Marty McFly Never Had to Deal with This

by sweatervest



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Back to the Future References, Banter, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Avengers (2012), Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Time Travel, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27444190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweatervest/pseuds/sweatervest
Summary: Tony's latest project goes less "renewable energy" and more "slightly explosive time machine," and Howard Stark arrives from 1946.Why, Steve would like to know, are time and space going to such lengths to cockblock him?
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 42
Kudos: 300





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wreck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wreck/gifts).



> The whole fic is done, and I'll be posting 1-2 chapters a week as I edit/clean them up. Ultimately, there is a happy ending and some humor throughout, but Tony and Steve are going to trip over some Big Feelings between now and then and maybe not always handle it or communicate super well. 
> 
> This is for the very funny and generous Wreck, who is the reason any of my fics are here.

Years ago, after Pepper had found Tony working with an early version of the Mark I, she’d made him promise to install an emergency protocol in JARVIS, one that was at Pepper’s standards of emergency, rather than Tony’s. He’d set it off once or twice, like a smoke detector tucked above a kitchen stove. Annoying. Tony had almost torn it out for good a few weeks ago, the warning beep a sharp reminder he and Pepper were off, uncertain if there’d be an on again.

Really, Tony reflects, eyes on the white hospital ceiling above him, Pepper being right was what made this all so much worse. 

“God damn it, Tony,” Steve says, his voice low with anger. “Don’t you ever learn anything.”

Tony doesn’t look over at him. Steve had been there when he woke up with an awful taste in the back of his throat and bandages wrapped from palm to shoulder. A bad burn from when the tech he’d been tinkering with had a sudden electric surge and blew out. He doesn’t remember anything after that. 

But when Tony had opened his eyes, Steve was there. He’d been so still, and Tony could almost see the fury in him, bright like the sun off his shield. When Steve had seen Tony was awake, he’d left the room without a word. He returned 10 minutes later, then sat back down, eyes focused somewhere else.

“We’re talking now?” Tony replies. “Two hours of silent treatment. Didn’t know you could be so petty, Cap. I’d almost be proud if I wasn’t lying here with my arm out of commission for two weeks.” He pauses. “Maybe one.”

“Two,” Steve insists. “Or I’ll tie you to the bed.”

“Kinky,” Tony purrs.

Steve looks away sharply, his jaw clenched. Tony frowns. Even in his worst moods, Steve responds to Tony’s casual flirting—an exasperated sigh, a quick smile. It’s the pattern they’d settled into once they’d both stopped trying to prove something to the other one. On the best days, Steve lobs a retort back almost before Tony finishes a sentence. 

“What’s with you? It’s not like I haven’t done this before.”

Steve laughs, short and brittle. “You haven’t done anything like _this_ before, Tony.”

Tony opens his mouth, about to ask just what the hell happened that’s got Steve so rattled. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” Fury interrupts from the door. “Can you walk, Stark?” 

Tony assesses. “Probably.”

“Good. Got someone you need to meet.”

“Can we reschedule? I’ve kind of got a thing.” Tony motions to his bandaged arm. “Prior engagement with a lot of pain killers and truly awful made-for-TV movies.”

“Not an option. This one’s what you might call time-sensitive.”

“Got him in a fake 40s hospital room, too?” Steve cuts in. 

Oh, Tony realizes. Time travel. Again. 

Fury sighs. “Looks, Rogers, I understand this might be difficult for you—”

“Difficult for me?” Steve snaps. “You think _that’s_ who I’m worried about?”

“It can’t be helped. Stark’s the one that yanked him right out of the past and so Stark’s our best shot at putting this right.”

“That had better be your only motivation, Nick. If I find anything that suggests more weapons research with things you can’t control—”

“You think I’m going to mess around with this? I’m not sure if you realize, but if we screw this up, I'm out of a job.” 

Steve’s lips press into a firm line. 

“I wouldn’t ask unless there wasn’t another choice,” Fury says finally, an edge of apology in his voice. “This is our only play. When he’s ready, bring Stark with you.”

“Okay,” Tony says after Fury leaves. “What the fuck?”

Steve slouches back in his chair and doesn’t look at him.

“Steve. What the hell is going on?”

“What were you trying to build, Tony? Before it blew up?”

Tony blinks. “Nothing in particular, just another prototype for a compact renewable energy source. Pepper.” He swallows. “Pepper and the board have been on me for months to get it finished.”

“So you pulled a few all-nighters.”

“Wasn’t the first time. Not even the first time things went sideways and a little explosive.”

“No,” Steve agrees. “But this is the first time it yanked someone forward in time.”

“Bucky?” Tony asks, because yeah, Fury and Steve weren’t exactly subtle in their argument. 

Steve shakes his head, eyes on the floor. 

“Not Peggy?”

“Bruce is looking over your notes and what’s left of the tech. He thinks maybe your DNA got wrapped up in it somehow. The burn.”

1940s fake hospital room. Someone who will drag Steve back through what slipped from his grasp when he put that plane in the ocean in ’45. His DNA. 

Tony swallows hard, knowing there’s only one person in the center of that particular Venn Diagram. 

“Tony,” Steve begins and Tony realizes the silence has lain thick between them.

“Yeah,” Tony acknowledges. “I heard you.” His voice sounds distant, even to his own ears. “I think I’m gonna need more pain pills.”

\--

Tony is aware he’s putting on clothes, that Steve is helping him with a gentle firmness that keeps his body moving forward while his brain spirals off somewhere else. He has enough presence of mind to think it’s a shame he’s distracted and can’t appreciate Steve’s hands on him, how Tony can tell which hand Steve uses to throw the shield just from the calluses on his fingers and palms. 

After they'd both learned to skirt their egos (mostly), it seemed absurd they _wouldn't_ have a warm, if occasionally volatile, friendship. Sometimes, it all still makes Tony dizzy to think about: Iron Man, the Avengers all living in the Tower, and how his closest friends now include two highly-trained spies, a Jekyll/Hyde analogue, a Norse god, and the tragic hero his dad never shut up about. And Steve had turned out to be so damn likable, Tony would have suspected this a side effect of the serum if Peggy Carter hadn't liked Steve from the start. Tony wasn't always great at admitting when he was beat, but he'd had no chance once Steve turned that genuine, open smile on him the first time.

The last few months have been different, though, something changing in the delicate lacework of their relationship. Steve's noticed it, too. More than once, Tony caught Steve watching him with a speculative look, as if Tony held the answer to the last questions about settling into the 21st century. 

Steve's hand is warm on his cheek.

“Tony,” Steve is saying and likely not for the first time. “Are you with me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Steve, I’m with you.” Tony reaches up to rest one hand over Steve’s. “You sure you want to do this?”

“Think I should be asking you that.”

“I survived 18 years with Howard,” Tony replies with a calm that is purely superficial. 

“You don’t have to do this.”

Tony snorts. “What, and fade from a family photograph like Marty McFly? No, thanks.”

“That won’t happen.”

“Planning to save the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance?”

“No,” Steve replies. “That won’t happen because you’re Doc Brown. Not Marty McFly.”

Tony is surprised by his own laugh. He wants to stay here in this moment with the Steve Rogers who catches his movie references, who touches him with warmth and care and never asks for anything in return. He is, he realizes, afraid to see who Steve is with Howard. Even a Howard from the 1940s, one who’s younger than Tony is now.

Tony squeezes Steve’s hand once before he steps back, out of reach. “Well. Let’s get this over with.”


	2. Chapter 2

“God,” Tony mutters, looking at the live feed of Howard idly pacing the small room they’ve put him in. “Look at that tie. I can’t believe those were considered fashionable.”

“I wouldn’t open with that,” Steve advises.

“You think that will be more difficult than ‘hey I’m your son from 70 years in the future and also we hated each other’?”

On screen, Howard strolls over to a window and looks out, hands in pockets.

“Fair point. You know what you’re going to say to him?”

“I’ll come up with something.”

“Better do it soon,” Steve advises, his eyes fixed on Howard. “I think he’s about to make a break for it.”

Tony snaps back to the screen. Howard looks right into the security cameras SHIELD had been so sure he wouldn’t see and smirks. “Yep, that is definitely what’s happening.”

The alarms kick on. Tony rubs his forehead.

“Got a plan, Steve?”

Steve crosses the room, pulling something from behind a filing cabinet. “Part of one.”

“Is that a _backpack?_ What—”

Steve pulls his shield from the backpack and hooks it on his arm. “Let’s go.”

Tony looks at the backpack, then to the shield, and finally back up at Steve. 

Steve shrugs defensively. “I was trying to keep a low profile.”

“We,” Tony says firmly, “are definitely going to have a conversation about this. But for now, looks like we’re chasing down dear-old-not-yet-dad before he creates a time paradox.”

Steve tosses Tony a few palm repulsors. “Remember not to accidentally kill your dear-old-not-yet-dad while he’s trying to escape from SHIELD’s New York facility and erase yourself from a photograph.”

“I hate you,” Tony says without meaning it. “I’ll lead, Sarah Connor.”

“That seems a stretch.” 

“I don’t make the rules.”

“Why am I not the Terminator in this scenario?” Steve wants to know as he follows Tony out of the room. 

“Jesus, you’re particular.”

Steve’s shield is enough of a signal for the agents to let them pass, even if they don’t immediately recognize Steve or Tony. Tony runs through the building’s schematic in his head, overlaying it with what he would guess is Howard’s instincts on escape routes. 

“Trouble up ahead,” Steve says from behind him. 

Sure enough, Tony hears shouting. At a T-intersection, Howard is boxed in. There’s a door on lockdown at his back and a clutch of agents closing in from the front. Tony feels his heart lurch when his gaze sweeps from Howard’s white-knuckled grip on his gun to an agent whose finger is on the trigger. 

“Stop!” Tony yells just as Steve barks, “Stand down!”

Then, before Tony has time to draw another breath, Steve’s shield clips his ear. There’s the sound of gunfire. 

Three repulsor blasts knock the agents off their feet, including the one—ones?—who fired. Howard falls back against the door, sweat in a thick layer over his face. No blood darkening his suit. Yet. 

Tony glances over his shoulder, just in time to see Steve storming towards the agents, fury boiling over. Not hit. As much as he’d like to watch Captain America in disciplinary action, Tony knows he has a different priority. He ducks around Steve’s shield, lodged in the wall, scuffed with bullet ricochets. 

When he remembers how to breathe properly again, Tony is going to talk Fury into an embarrassingly large bonus for Steve. 

Howard doesn’t fight when Tony takes the gun from him, nor when he hauls the man to his feet. 

“Are you hit?” Tony asks Howard.

Howard is staring over Tony’s shoulder at Steve’s shield. 

“Hey,” Tony waves a hand in front of his face. “Are you hit?”

“What?” Howard starts. “No. I—where did you get that?”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure I haven’t been shot,” Howard snaps. “I’ve had the pleasure of that experience before. Are you planning to answer my question?”

“What question?”

Howard points behind Tony. “Where did you get that shield.”

“It’s a replica.”

“It’s not.” 

That was a longshot anyway. Tony raises an eyebrow at Howard, stalling.

“I made that shield,” Howard continues. “I know it when I see it, and I want to know where you found it.”

Tony wonders how to begin, now that they’re on Topic 4: Your Friend Isn’t Actually Dead instead of where Tony had hoped to start (Topic 1: Everything Is Fine!) He scrambles to come up with something to diffuse Howard’s anger before it settles in for the long haul. 

“In the Arctic. A few miles from the North Pole, and under a lot of ice,” Steve’s voice says from behind Tony. He tugs his shield from the wall, brushing away the dust and plaster. “Or so they tell me.”

Tony watches Howard’s face go pale, how his eyes dart to Steve and then away, as if it hurts to look at him. 

“Nice throw,” Tony says. 

“You’re bleeding,” Steve says gently, reaching for him.

There’s a spike of shame and fear and Tony ducks away, hyper vigilant of Howard’s presence. He tries not to see Steve’s reaction and mumbles: “flesh wound.” 

“Right,” Steve exhales. 

“The agents?”

“Disbanded,” Steve replies. “If I have my say.”

“Something tells me Fury will go for that,” Tony says with an ease he doesn’t feel. 

The way Steve looks at him tells Tony he hasn’t fooled Steve. When Steve's attention shifts to Howard, Tony watches the steel go into him. He hates this Steve, the one from films and who was all resolve and staunchness. The Steve who would never draw the Avengers as the Scooby-Doo gang and submit the comic to the _New Yorker_ on a whim.

(“You made me the Mystery Machine? That’s rude, Rogers. You know, just for that, no new punching bags for a month.” 

“I didn’t think they’d print it,” Steve had said, still stunned and still not an apology. 

“And you made yourself Freddie Jones. Not exactly subtle, is that? Trying to tell me something?” 

“Yeah,” Steve said, eyes snapping up to meet Tony’s. “You’re a lot to handle but I think I can manage.”)

Howard’s voice slices through the memory. “Steve—I—” 

He steps forward and reaches for Steve, then hesitates. Howard’s gaze sweeps over Steve a few times, like he’s scanning him. 

“The plane. Peggy said.” He stops. “What is this?” Something mean passes over Howard’s face.

Tony stiffens. Steve notices.

“What the hell is this. Who are you people?”

It’s only the months training and fighting together that let Tony see it: how Steve’s weight rolls to his right, ready to get between Tony and a threat.

“Howard, you’re not in danger,” Steve says calmly. “I survived the crash. This facility is where…I was brought to recover.”

“Prove it.”

“Ask me something I would know. I’ll tell you the answer.”

Howard doesn’t break his stare. Neither does Steve. The difference is, Steve’s is soft around the edges. As if a line in the sand is a statement of fact, not an attack. 

“That village you liberated with the Howling Commandos, the one in Burgundy. You brought back something they’d given you as a thank-you.”

Steve smiles slow and warm. Tony feels a black hole open up in his chest. 

“You mean the crème de cassis you and Bucky got drunk off your asses on, and I had to haul you into your bunks?” Steve stops. “My bunk, as I recall, and I had to sleep on that cot of yours.”

Howard winces, but he’s grinning. “Sorry, pal. Not made for someone your size.”

“It was not,” Steve agrees. “I had to get a stool to prop my feet up on.”

Howard bursts into laughter and clasps Steve shoulder, then his face in both hands. “Well, I’ll be damned. Steve Rogers, back from the dead. Jesus, you gave us a fright, kid. You told Peggy the good news yet?”

The warmth on Steve’s face becomes fixed. “She knows,” he says.

“Well, we ought to celebrate. Why hang around this depressing joint?”

“Ah,” Tony cuts in. “About that. Technically, we’re not allowed to let you leave.”

“What?” Howard glances between Tony and Steve. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s a long story,” Steve says. 

“Decades,” Tony adds. “In fact.”

Steve’s hand lands on Tony’s shoulder. “Stop helping.” 

Tony pouts until Steve glances over. Winks at him. Tony preens a little under the attention, steadily ignores Howard’s evaluating look. 

“Let’s go somewhere we can sit down,” Steve suggests. “This might take a while.”

\--

All things considered, Steve decides, Howard took the news well. He needed evidence, of course, but that was easy enough to provide. Steve had made sure they were in a room that overlooked the city and a few major roads.

Steve tries to keep Howard’s attention on him and away from Tony. Away from the repulsors Tony has tucked in his back pocket. Steve is sure there must be a safety on them because Tony is usually responsible when there's risk to others, but he really can’t help checking there’s nothing wrong every so often. Besides, Steve had bossed Tony into an arm sling after they'd narrowly prevented a disastrous time paradox and if something does go wrong, Steve needs to be ready to help.

And if it means he has to stare at Tony Stark’s ass? Well, Steve thinks, his cross to bear. 

By the time Fury arrives, they’ve wrapped up the background and Steve has answered as many of Howard’s questions he’s sure he can safely. 

“Well, Mr. Stark, you’ve created quite a stir around here,” Fury says. “Not much that can make my agents lose their heads and forget hours of expensive government-level training.”

“I have that effect,” Howard replies with a smirk. 

Fury’s eyes flicker to Tony too quick for Howard to notice. He mutters something even Steve can barely hear, a sentence with _genetic_ and _pain in my ass_ , and Steve folds his mouth into a frown to keep from laughing. 

“I take it these two have briefed you on the situation?”

“They have, Director. Although I haven’t been formally introduced to your agent here.”

“Tony is—” Fury begins.

“Not an agent,” Tony slides in smoothly. “More like a consultant. Technology.” He holds out his hand.

Howard shakes it. “Tony…?”

“Just Tony, no last name. Like. Uh, Churchill.”

“Churchill is his last name.”

“Oh, well, learn something new every day.”

Steve sighs.

“Hey,” Tony says. “None of your sass, Rogers.”

“Uh huh,” Steve replies. 

“Tony here is going to be working on getting you back to your own time,” Fury continues, giving Tony a warning glare. 

Howard points at Tony. “The agent without a last name who doesn’t know Winston Churchill’s full name will be working on the technology to send me back through time.”

To his credit, Fury doesn’t even blink. “Yes.”

“Don’t worry, pops, we’re cooking with gas,” Tony assures. “We’ll get you back to the good ol’ days so you can jive with your ducky shincracker before you snap your cap.”

Steve chokes and resolutely looks anywhere but at Fury or Howard. He hooks an arm around Tony’s neck and hauls him close.

“You’re helping again,” Steve tells him.

“My mistake,” Tony murmurs against Steve’s cheek.

“Gentlemen,” Fury interrupts. “Perhaps you should begin your work on getting Mr. Stark _back to where he belongs_.”

“Yes, sir,” Steve replies crisply, starting for the door and pulling Tony along.

“We can arrange for you to have monitored visits with Rogers and limited access to our data on your arrival if you think you can help us,” Fury is saying to Howard. “Oh, and Rogers? I think it’s best if we keep Mr. Stark under close observation for now. We don’t want him to find himself in a difficult situation.” 

“Understood.” 

Steve pulls Tony from the room and doesn’t fully release him until they’re several yards down the hallway. 

“You want to explain what that was about?” Steve asks.

“I really don’t,” Tony replies. “Let’s get out of here. This place always gives me the creeps.”

Steve remembers the baseball game on the radio, the _not right_ slowly unspooling in his chest when he first opened his eyes in the 21st century. 

“You and me both,” he agrees and follows Tony out of the building. 

Keep Tony under close observation, Fury had ordered. An order given with Tony in the room. 

This, Steve knows, is going to be a long week.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and for your comments and kudos! I promise to reply to comments individually soon. It's just been real busy here, and I've got enough spare brainpower to edit/proofread but not much else. 
> 
> Just one chapter this time around, but it's almost as long as the first two put together.

Tony disappears into the workshop as soon as they return to the Tower, and Steve decides the smart thing is to let him have space. A tactical retreat. 

Steve finds himself in his rooms, reaching for something to do before grinding to a halt: going for a run; a few bouts with a punching bag; sketching something; one of the thick books that lay around his room, half-finished. There’s a pit in his stomach, and all of this before him won’t satisfy the hunger to do what he always does: throw himself into or at something, let his brain switch over to tactical, smother the things that cannot be solved with a shield.

It’s an open wound, this future business. Steve loves so much of it—the food, the art, the movies. How people love and fight for one another just as fiercely as they always have. The piles of words to say who you are, who you love, and how Steve had, for the first time, understood the pieces of himself he hid away in the name of survival. But it hurts, too. Everything a reminder of what is lost to him forever, what he would lose if there was a way back again. Man out of time, man between times.

Eventually, he ends up on the roof of the Tower. He woke up in this city, held orders as his true north, and in what feels like yet another bit of pure luck, is the leader of a team again. Unlike his Howling Commandos, the Avengers will fight him if they don’t like an order and none of them hold him as above them. A leader, but not one whose word is law. Steve hadn’t realized what a relief that would be.

The door opens behind him. 

“I thought I might find you up here,” Bruce greets.

“JARVIS give me away?”

“Didn’t seem like you’d be in Tony’s workshop. Not when he’s playing Black Sabbath that loudly anyway.”

“ _Master of Reality_?”

“ _Sabotage_ , actually.” 

Steve winces. 

“You tried talking to him yet?” Bruce holds up his hands at Steve’s sharp look. “Yeah, sorry I asked.”

“I think Tony might prefer not to see me for a while.”

“Yeah, well.” Bruce shrugs. “Tony doesn’t always want what’s best for himself, does he.”

“A trait we all share,” Steve answers with a tight smile. “But I take your point.”

“I hate to say good luck, but… I think you might need it.”

Steve huffs out a laugh.

\--

He lets Tony sulk and hide for five hours, calculating that after that amount of time, Tony will be 1) hungry, 2) in need of coffee, and 3) through his loudest rotations of Black Sabbath, AC/DC, and Metallica. If he’s lucky, by the time Steve gets downstairs with a sandwich and cup of coffee, it’ll be Pink Floyd blasting.

Outside the workshop door, Steve pauses to listen. He pulls out his phone, taps the tile to open the app Nat had installed for him. Pixies, the app tells him. 

Well. It won’t be the first time he goes in without intel. 

Tony’s back is to the door, but Steve watches his shoulders tighten. The music drops to a level they can talk over. Most likely JARVIS’s doing.

“You want something, Cap?”

“Brought you a sandwich and a refill.”

Tony turns, a look of deep suspicion on his face. “Oh yeah? What’s the cost?”

“Eating something,” Steve returns. “Before you collapse, and I have to haul your ass upstairs.”

“You love my ass.”

“I love,” Steve says, shoving the sandwich into Tony’s hands. “When you eat _actual food_.”

“Spoilsport,” Tony sniffs. 

Steve sighs and rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “Your ass is also lovely, Tony. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Tony says through a mouthful of sandwich.

“What are you working on?”

Tony waves a hand. “Let’s not, okay, Steve? Fury ordered you to babysit me.”

“He did,” Steve allows. “But I’m not here under orders.”

“Oh yeah? Then what are you here for?”

“As a friend.”

Tony snorts. 

“Tony—”

“Steve, for fuck’s sake. Save the afterschool special, will you? My father—my garbage, neglectful father—has _returned from the dead_ except he’s not the Howard Stark _I_ knew, he’s your best friend forever back and has no idea who I am—which, frankly, icing on the goddamn cake.” Tony frowns and pauses to finish the sandwich. “There’s no dressing that up in some kind of lesson about friendship or responsibility.”

“Who says there’s a lesson?” 

“I’m sorry, isn’t everything with you some kind of opportunity to be a good American?”

Steve draws in a long, slow breath, pressing down his annoyance. Might as well be standing in that bright blue uniform again, a few months into the future and eclipsed by the shadow of Howard Stark every time Tony looked at him.

If the universe were at all fair, it would have delivered a Howard 30 years older and then Steve could have put on his best Disapproving Captain face and given him decaf coffee “on accident” until Tony figured out how to send him home.

“I’m here as your friend, Tony. _Your_ friend. Not Howard’s.”

Tony turns his back, hunching over his work. “Just give me a few hours’ peace, would you? I don’t need Captain America peering over my shoulder when he’s going to be tailing me all week.”

“All right, but if you don’t take it easy on that arm, I’m ordering JARVIS to lock you out of the workshop.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“I regret to inform you I would, sir,” JARVIS interrupts. “In the matter of your health, overrides are not acknowledged.”

“Traitor,” Tony mutters.

Steve leaves, resolving to try again in the morning. 

\--

In the morning, Fury calls him in and Steve spends four hours in a room with Howard, helping him go over some data set or another, pretending he doesn’t feel the ice creeping up his legs.

\--

Tony’s sprawled out on the couch, watching a movie when Steve gets back. On the screen, a teenager plays what Steve recognizes as _Galaga_ before sprinting out of the arcade and trying to sneak into his high school class late.

“How’s your arm?” he asks, sitting on the edge of cushion by Tony’s feet.

“Fine.”

The bandage looks fresh and although Tony has his arm resting carefully across his chest, he doesn’t look like it’s causing him any pain. Steve decides to leave it for now. 

“What are you watching?” he asks instead. 

Tony rubs his good hand over his face. “Old/new movie.”

Old for Tony; new for Steve.

“You’d like it,” Tony continues and starts the movie over. “I wasn’t far in.”

Steve shifts Tony’s feet into his lap, settling more firmly on the couch as he watches the opening scenes of secret underground bases that remind him of SHIELD's older facilities. He does like the movie. Tony wriggles further down the couch until his butt rests against Steve's thigh. Tony spends so much of his day tightly controlled—for investors, for the press—Steve doesn’t mind that when he relaxes, there’s often a risk of finding yourself caught in the sprawl. 

“You were right,” Steve says once the credits roll. “I enjoyed that.” 

“Mm,” Tony replies with a soft smile. “We'll get you caught up to this century yet, Steve.”

Steve chuckles. “That might be a task too ambitious even for you, Tony.”

“We'll just see,” Tony shoots back, his smile turning into a challenge. “Want to help me with something tomorrow?”

Steve rubs a thumb over Tony’s knee. “Fury called me back in for tomorrow.”

Tony sits up. “What? You’re going back?”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“Tony, you know why.”

“Oh, right, trading more war stories,” he says in a tone that is so neutral, it feels like a punch in the gut.

“Tony,” Steve tries, but Tony is off the couch and gone. 

Steve goes down to the gym and doesn’t leave until he’s destroyed one of Tony’s Cap-Proof punching bags. He soaks his hands, watching the blood curl up from his knuckles and knows they’ll have healed by morning. 

\--

The next day is the same. When he comes home, Tony won't look at him.

Steve’s nightmares return: the ice, Peggy’s voice on the radio; Tony disappearing into a wormhole; a half-second too late to grab Bucky before he falls. Sometimes, it’s the day JARVIS’s emergency alert went off and Steve had burst into the workshop to find Tony crumpled on the floor, blood sheeting his arm and face. 

\--

Fury tries to call Tony in three separate times. Steve knows this because after the third time, Fury calls Steve.

“Then you’ll have to bring Howard by the Tower,” Steve tells him, exhausted and fed up.

He doesn’t expect Fury to take him seriously.

\--

“Well, you really have just the best plans don’t you, Steve?” Tony snaps, while they wait to meet the SHIELD escort and Howard in the workshop. “An unmatched tactical mind.”

Steve says nothing.

“So we’re just tossing aside all caution.”

“Thought you’d like that,” Steve mutters before he can stop himself. 

Tony glares at him, a challenge in the look.

Two SHIELD Agents escort Howard to the door of the workshop, then wait outside. Howard walks in alone. He saunters over and clasps Steve’s shoulder warmly in greeting. 

“Tony Churchill,” Howard says to Tony with a smirk, holding out his hand. “Nice to see you again.”

“It’s Stark, actually,” Tony says, with a smile that has too many teeth. “Tony Stark.”

It feels like the air goes out of the room and the worst part is Steve’s not even surprised. 

“Tony Stark,” Howard repeats. 

“Yep. Though, technically, Anthony Stark, I suppose, but never quite liked the formality of the full name.” 

Howard’s surprise gives way to calculation. “Never saw myself as much of a family man.”

“You weren’t.”

“Tony,” Steve interjects. 

“Stay out of it,” Tony snaps back. “As for you, pops, let’s get this family reunion over with.”

“Steve?” Howard asks.

Steve swallows and says carefully: “When I woke up, it’d been nearly 70 years since the plane went down.”

He’s relieved when Howard only nods and follows after Tony. Steve pulls over a stool and sits, watching the two Starks settle in to several hours of work. It’s surreal. Steve remembered what it was like to watch Howard work, and when Tony had first let him into the workshop, it had been so much more. They both liked to show off, but Howard wanted the attention. Tony wanted to share his ideas, talk to people about them, find new ways of looking at what he’d already studied from three different angles. Steve supposes that’s what happens when you go in reverse: weapons technology, then superhero. 

There’s a difference now, of course. Tony is tense and unhappy, his space suddenly haunted by his father. It hurts to see that sharp-edged bright smile on his face here, the one Tony uses for press conferences and other places where he has to schmooze and pretend he likes the assholes who thought his kidnapping was an opportunity to seize a piece of Stark Industries. 

Howard’s expression is smooth, but Steve can see the way his hands are shoved in his pockets, the slightly wild look as he tries to process what Tony is explaining at a quick pace. Steve feels a deep satisfaction at that—he and Howard got along fine, but Howard did have a tendency to talk down to Steve. Even if he had survived to the new millennium, Tony would have outpaced him at least a decade before. It’s dizzying, sometimes, to have that focus entirely on you.

Steve hovers, uncertain of his place. It’s disorienting, like being on the helicarrier and desperately pleased to have caught Fury’s _Wizard of Oz_ joke. 

“Steve,” Tony says without turning around, a touch of exasperation in his voice. “You don’t have to monitor us so closely. Disappearing photograph, remember?”

“Oh. Right.” 

Tony turns and the glossy smile turns warm for just a moment. “Watch my six, would you, soldier?”

Steve smiles back and can feel the uncertainty of his expression. He goes anyway, over to the drafting table in a far corner under a lamp. Tony had set this up for him when Steve started spending more time in the workshop. It gave Steve an easier place to work than the lumpy furniture scattered around like asteroids.

“What’s that?” Howard asks.

“A room of one’s own,” Tony dismisses.

Steve feels his smile turn more firm and ignores Howard’s questioning stare on his back. He focuses on the sketch under his hands until the world outside of this small corner fades away.

\--

By the time Howard leaves, Steve’s hands ache and there’s a stack of sketches two inches thick. 

“I can’t believe that guy grows up to be my asshole of a father,” Tony mutters as he cleans up. 

“I think you scare him,” Steve says quietly. 

Tony looks up sharply. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You’re brilliant, you know?” Steve pauses. “The way you think—you see something the rest of us can’t. We have to go on faith.”

“Faith? In me? Must be your nightmare.”

“I always have faith in you, Tony.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Rogers. You’ve argued with me too many times for that to hold water.”

“Having faith that you see something deserving our attention is not the same as disagreeing with you on how to address it.”

“Answer for everything.”

“You’re brilliant, Tony,” Steve repeats. “So much more brilliant than Howard ever was. When I see any of Howard in you, it’s that part. Ten years ahead of the rest of us and fearless.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Tony shoots back. “I’m a coward.”

“Now who’s bullshitting who.”

Tony spins around, frowning at Steve. “I don’t really need this star-spangled man with a family plan pep talk, Cap.” 

“You ever going to stop being combative when I say something nice about you?”

Tony considers. “Probably not.”

“Right,” Steve sighs. 

“Try not to let it weigh on you. It’s a result of the...aforementioned asshole father. Speaking of which.” Tony pauses, runs an evaluating look over Steve. 

Steve catches him at it and holds his gaze. Tony tries not to focus too hard on how Steve always seems to see right through him. 

“You two seemed rather cozy.”

Steve closes his eyes and takes a long, slow breath. “Don’t.” 

“What? Don’t want to be honest with the son of the man you probably shacked up with on cold nights?”

“We didn’t— _Jesus_ , Tony, is _that_ what you think?”

“You tell me. Couldn’t stop talking about you when I was growing up and now with this”—Tony flaps his arms to take in the workshop, the half-finished machine on the worktable—“I half-expected him to greet you by shoving his tongue down your throat.”

Steve laughs in disbelief.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Why does it matter, Tony?” Steve asks and he looks bone-tired. “What’s the use of dragging up old ghosts?”

“Aside from the part where one is here? Now?” Tony folds his arms, resolutely ignores the little voice telling him he’s pushing too hard, that Steve doesn’t deserve this suspicion. He can’t stop himself, not when—

_You’re Doc Brown_

_You’re a lot to handle, but I think I could manage_

_Are you with me_

“Tell me I’m wrong, Steve,” Tony demands.

“You’re wrong.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“That is clear,” Steve replies smoothy. “Doesn’t change the truth.”

“Spoken like a true politician.” 

Steve is quiet for a long moment, then: “How about you come talk to me when you’re ready to start acting like the genius you claim to be?”

He leaves the workshop, Tony staring in stunned silence after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The movie is War Games :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve and Tony figure some things out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters for this update with lots of Steve and Tony talking like grown-ups! Hooray!

Tony half-expects Steve to avoid the workshop the next day, but he’s there a few minutes before Howard’s scheduled arrival. Tony gets a curt nod. He clenches his jaw under his smile when Steve greets Howard with a few words and Howard says something to make him laugh. 

“Let’s move it, old man,” Tony says. “Lots to do today. Wax poetic about the greatest generation on your own time.” 

He turns his back and throws himself into his work. 

\--

Two hours in, an alarm cuts through the air. A mission. 

“No,” Steve says when he sees Tony getting to his feet. “You’re sitting this one out.”

“Like hell I am.” 

“You’re injured.”

“Doesn’t affect my mobility.” Tony rolls his arm to prove it. “I’m in the suit, Cap.” 

“Tony—”

“You’re not leaving me behind, so figure it out,” Tony snaps.

Something roils in Steve’s eyes, irritation and—panic? Fear? That can’t be right. A kind of ferocity Tony doesn’t recognize. 

Steve steps closer to him and drops his voice to a low pitch. “You stay in a defensive position. No perimeter. You follow my orders _to the letter_. Do you understand me?” 

“Sure,” Tony says, surprise wiping away all his best snippy retorts. 

Steve gives a tight nod. “Meet at the jet in ten minutes. Suit up.”

Tony lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. When he turns around, Howard is watching him. 

“You seem surprised,” Howard says. “Never seen him like that?”

“Guess not.” 

Howard shrugs a shoulder, looking back down at the calculations he has written out in front of him. 

“I take it that means you have,” Tony prompts.

“We were in a war,” Howard says, as if that answers the question. 

“This is routine. Alarm goes off, we take out bad guys, done.”

“Think there might be more to it than that this time, slugger.” Howard makes a note. “He gets like that when he loses a man.”

“Bucky?”

Howard snorts. “Barnes? Christ, no. That was much worse.”

Tony waits. Howard looks up. He sighs and puts his pencil behind his ear.

“You ever seen a guy try to kill himself and not know that’s what he’s doing?” Howard asks. “Work himself to the bone so he doesn’t have to think about whatever’s gone wrong? Imagine that for someone who’s been chosen to be America’s shield.” Howard pauses, looks back down at his papers. “Kid’s got a good heart. It’s why Erskine chose him. But he can’t switch it off, not like you and me.”

Something catches in Tony’s throat. It’s not new information, not when he’s seen Steve take risks that make Tony’s heart gutter or when he thinks of how he’d justified making weapons for so many years. The Howard Tony had known would never have said this openly, if he’d ever even say it at all. 

The alarm cycles again, five minute warning. 

“Don’t get yourself killed,” Howard advises. 

“Thanks for the tip,” Tony scoffs, snaps on the cuffs that calls the suit to him. “Well, pops, you’re in for a treat.”

Howard sweeps a look from the boots to the helmet and wolf-whistles.

Despite everything—the fight with Steve, his time-traveling father, all the worst parts of him spilling out once more—Tony grins under the faceplate. He’ll take a compliment on the suit any day. 

\--

Defense is deeply unsatisfying. The Iron Man suit is designed for the hair-trigger pivots of first response and perimeter work, and covering the others feels painfully dull by comparison. Each time he feels the temptation to break his promise, Tony remembers that fierce look in Steve’s eyes, the good heart he can’t switch off. What does it mean, Tony wonders, that Steve looked at him like he’d lost someone?

It’s almost routine, until Steve takes an energy beam blast across the back.

Tony watches him fall and thinks about frozen cliffs and ghostly train whistles. 

\--

Steve gets up. Steve always gets up. 

“Move in. Take them down,” he says, and the fight’s over. 

Steve brushes off the team’s questions about the hit he took and disappears as soon as they’re back at the Tower.

Tony waits until everyone’s gear is off and put away. He checks that Howard is where he left him. Agents are guarding the door. After what feels like enough stalling, Tony goes looking for Steve.

His door is ajar, the room dark except for a single light further in. 

“Steve?” he calls. Never a good idea to surprise him.

There’s some kind of response. He strolls into Steve’s room and to the bathroom tucked in the back. Steve stands at the wide counter of the vanity, a pile of gauze, bandages, and anti-septic in front of him. He’s still in his uniform’s undershirt, but everything else has been stripped or swapped for sweatpants. There’s a slash of dark across Steve’s back, the blast burned deep.

“Need something?” Steve asks.

“Shit, Steve. Why didn’t you say anything?” Tony starts forward, then stops when Steve takes a step back. 

“It’s fine.”

“What, you’re going to just take care of that yourself?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” 

Tony blinks.

“Basic first aid training was kind of part of the job,” Steve says. “I had the neatest sutures of the Commandos.”

“They teach you that in art school?”

Steve smiles. It’s small, but it’s genuine, and Tony breathes a little more freely. 

“All poor kids in Brooklyn learn to stitch up a shirt tear, if they knew what was good for them.”

“Ah,” Tony says. “Mama Rogers. Had to be a tough woman to keep you in line.”

Steve shrugs. “Wasn't much of a challenge. I was sick a lot before the serum.”

Tony stuffs his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Yeah? And your smart mouth and stubborn streak were additional side effects?”

Steve chuckles. “Well. Takes one to know one, doesn't it.”

“Mm,” Tony agrees. “On the topic: let me help.”

“Tony—”

“Steve. You can’t reach all of that.”

“…Okay.”

“Okay,” Tony repeats. He looks closer at the wound and sucks in a breath. 

“Bad?”

“Looks like the heat from the blast melted it. It’s stuck.” Tony prods gently around the wound. “We get any data on their weapons?”

“SHIELD took them for analysis.” 

“I’d sure like to know what can slice through your uniform shell like this.” He frowns. “I’ll get some scissors.”

“Just yank it off, Tony.”

“What, and however many layers of skin with it?”

Steve shrugs. “It’s fine. It’ll close over in a day or two.”

Tony stares at him in the mirror. “Are you insane?”

Steve sighs and steps away. Before Tony can grab his arm to stop him— _try_ to stop him, and end up across the room for his troubles—Steve pulls his uniform undershirt off over his head and tosses it aside. Sure enough, a few layers of skin go, too, and his back bleeds freely. 

“Fuck.” Tony scrambles for gauze and anti-septic. “You idiot. Hold _still_.”

“It stings,” Steve mutters, but braces his arms on the vanity counter.

“Baby,” Tony grumbles and ignores the affection that has snuck into his voice. 

Once the worst of the bleeding stops, Tony sets to work cleaning and bandaging. His free hand, the one still wrapped up, rests on Steve’s side. He hums while he works, feeling his own post-battle tension folding away as Steve’s breath goes low and steady. When Tony glances up, he sees Steve watching him through the mirror, the same expression on his face as when he’s working on a puzzle. Tony realizes he’s been idly stroking Steve’s side, tracing patterns on his skin. 

Damn nervous energy, he thinks. 

“Sorry,” Tony says.

“No,” Steve says quickly, then stops. His throat works for a moment, and: “It’s okay. It’s…nice. Comforting.” He smiles, self-conscious. “People don’t touch me much.”

Tony nods. He turns back to bandaging Steve’s back, lets his free hand resume it’s slow movements. Steve sighs quietly, the tension in his back uncoiling further. Tony spends more time than is strictly necessary making sure the gauze and tape lay smooth. He pats Steve’s arm.

“All set, champ.”

“Thanks.” Steve retrieves a clean t-shirt and pulls it on, wincing a little. “Never hurts any less.”

“Need help changing that tomorrow?”

“Probably. Thanks, Tony.”

“Yep,” Tony says. 

The thing is, Tony doesn’t want to leave just yet. He can feel his muscles already beginning to settle into their pleasant post-battle ache. Howard seems decades away, rather than a few floors. Steve looks more relaxed than he has since Howard’s arrival, but there’s something still distant and far away. Before Tony can think too much—always a problem—he reaches. Fingertips press against the back of Steve’s neck, his thumbs brush gently along Steve’s cheeks. Steve’s inhale is sharp and he ducks his head, turning his face into Tony’s good hand, his lips pressing against the heel of Tony’s palm. 

Oh, Tony thinks and concentrates on breathing. 

“You with me?” he asks, nearly a whisper. 

Steve nods once, but otherwise doesn’t move.

Tony drops his other hand to brace against Steve’s chest and steps closer. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

Tony smiles, lets his thumb trace along the curve of Steve’s cheekbone. “How about you look at me, soldier?”

Steve stiffens a little, but does. 

“Are you with me? In this decade?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Tony says, and then, like the idiot in front of him with no sense of when to quit or stand down, he steps forward again and kisses Steve on the mouth. 

He can feel Steve’s breath catch, how Steve shifts forward to kiss him back. Then he’s pulling away and Tony definitely does _not_ whine, and resolutely ignores the quick smirk Steve does _not_ give in response, because Steve has only leaned back to brace himself against the counter. Tony shivers when Steve’s hands grip his ass, hitch him closer. Then his mouth is on Tony’s again, his teeth catching Tony’s lip, a reminder of the sharp edges Steve keeps carefully hidden. Tony wants to clutch at Steve’s collar, his shoulders, touch until the mask falls away and he can see those parts of Steve that are warm and complicated.

Steve kisses Tony’s chin, his fluttering pulse point, buries his face at the base of Tony’s throat. He stays there, evening out his breathing while Tony twists his fingers in Steve’s hair, filing away which touches make that whisper of a shiver run down Steve’s back. 

“No,” Steve finally says. “Not like this, Tony.”

Tony freezes. “Like what?”

“Like you’re somehow winning. If you get me.”

“I—Steve, it’s not like that.”

“It feels like that. If we do it this way.”

“What’s the other way?”

Steve sighs. “I don’t know. Dinner, a movie. Talking about why you’re upset before you start accusing me of things.”

“I’m good at two of those. Might be SOL on the third.”

Steve gives a short laugh, sitting back. “Kind of baseline, Tony.”

“Steve,” Tony protests. “I—come on, you know I’m a mess. I’m sure to fuck it all up, even with the perfect all-American man millions swoon over.”

Steve slides smoothly out of Tony’s grip. “I’m not, perfect, Tony,” he says, cleaning up the first-aid supplies and putting them away. “I don’t expect you to be, either.”

“Then what, Steve?”

“Believe me,” Steve says, turning to look at him, “when I tell you something is the truth.”

“Steve,” Tony starts. He stops, not sure what to say next. “I…I’m sorry, all right? This week is.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s just all so fucked, you know? It’s like the special clip show episode of Howard Stark’s A+ Parenting. With never-before-seen material.”

Steve doesn’t look angry, just tired. He cups Tony’s cheek, kisses him once, close-lipped and soft. 

“I want you, Tony, okay? Only you. God help me.”

Tony glares.

“You’re a handful, Stark,” Steve continues, amused.

“In more ways than you realize, darling,” Tony purrs. 

Steve kisses him again, a touch more heat in this one. “What was that about a smart mouth?” he asks against Tony’s lips.

“You’re killing me, Rogers,” Tony moans. 

“Sort it out, Tony. Doesn’t have to be perfect, just something.” Steve smiles as he steps back again. “I'll be here.”

Tony gives a short nod, hearing the end of the conversation. “See you tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow,” Steve agrees.

Tony turns and heads back downstairs to Howard and the time machine, a new project’s blueprints unfolding in his head.

\---


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint is a good bro.

They need a break, Tony decides, and tells Fury Howard is to stay at SHIELD all weekend. Well, he tells Fury’s voicemail. And in code. Even with people he likes as part of SHIELD, Tony can’t really get past his general aversion to the shadowy spy organization that wants to have him and everyone else in the Tower on call. 

Besides, he needs time to solve his Steve problem. Tony definitely doesn’t want his dear-old-not-yet-dad haunting his workshop while Tony is trying to figure out how to topple dear-old-not-yet-dad’s friend from the 40s into his (Tony’s) bed and keep him (Steve) there a while. 

“Not here today,” Tony says when Steve walks into the workshop, a mug of coffee in his hand.

“I know; Fury called,” Steve replies, setting the coffee by Tony. “He wasn’t happy.”

“Tragic,” Tony replies, distracted. “I’ll send him a bouquet of wiretaps.”

“Tony.”

“Yep?” Tony blinks over at him. “You’ve got the day off, Steve. You want to spend it around here?”

“We don’t know the effects of Howard staying in the future this long,” Steve says in that responsible Captain America voice. “Every day we spend not working on a solution has risks we can’t even know until it’s too late to fix them.”

“Let me worry about that, Cap. My photograph.”

“It’s mine, too, you know.” Steve sighs. “Never thought I’d say this, but what if he gets back and pulls me out of the ice too early?”

Tony swivels around in his chair. “You could have a life with Peggy,” he points out, ignoring how the thought makes his gut swim. “You don’t want that?”

Steve stares hard at Tony, his expression carefully neutral. “Either way, I lose something I’m not willing to give up.”

“Well.” Tony swallows. “Until it’s a problem that needs solving, no use crying over…crushed butterflies.” 

“Really?”

“It sounded better in my head,” Tony defends. 

“Okay, genius billionaire playboy,” Steve says. “I’ll let you work.”

“You forgot philanthropist!” Tony yells after him. “And superhero!”

Steve waves a hand back at him without turning around. 

\--

 _Figure it out,_ Steve had said. If only Tony knew what _it_ was.

The computer blueprints aren’t helping him work, so Tony gets out a corkboard and starts printing things. Maybe the old-fashioned problem needs old-fashioned problem-solving techniques.

He takes a nap on the lumpy sofa, directing JARVIS not to let Steve in the workshop without his say-so.

\--

When Tony wakes up, disoriented, he thinks JARVIS has let Steve into the workshop anyway. There’s someone standing in front of his corkboard brainstorming session, arms folded over his chest. He turns when Tony sits up, and Tony sees it’s Clint. Not Steve. 

Tony gets up, trying to stretch a pinch out of his neck. “More arrow prototypes?”

“What is this?” Clint asks, jabbing a thumb at the corkboard. 

“New project.”

“Makes you look like a serial killer.”

Tony squints at the collage he’s made of Steve, the notes he’s thumbtacked up and string connecting pictures or phrases. “Digital blueprinting wasn’t working—do you have a point here, Barton?”

“Did you have to use red thread?” Clint continues, mostly to himself.

“What’s wrong with red? The suit’s red. Steve’s shield has red.”

“Uh huh.” Clint eyes the collage one last time, then fixes a Tony with a look. “Are you building a Steve bot?”

“What?”

“A Steve bot. To satisfy your pining. Which, by the way, is really starting to cut into team morale. No one’s winning the betting pool and we’ve already reset it twice.”

Tony rubs a hand over his eyes and down his face. “Barton, are you asking me if I’m making a sex bot that looks like Steve.”

Clint shrugs, holds up his hands. “What you do down here is your business.”

“You’re evicted. Go pack. Out.”

“Can’t,” Clint says with a sunny grin. “Tenant’s rights. Have to give me at least 30 days.”

“I am not,” Tony says firmly, “making a bot of any kind. I am trying to solve a Steve problem.”

“By stalking him.”

“He _lives_ here, how can I stalk him?”

“I don’t know, man, you’re the one with the stalker board.”

“Ugh,” Tony says. 

“What’s the Steve problem?” Clint asks after a few minutes of silence. 

“Howard,” Tony replies.

“Only Howard?”

“I might’ve…suggested…” Tony scowls at Clint. “He never shut up about him, what was I supposed to think?”

“Are we going to use actual names in this conversation, or…?”

“Howard. Never shut up about Steve.” Tony starts disassembling the corkboard and throwing the pieces away. “What was I supposed to think?”

There is a very long silence, then: “ _Wow_.”

“What?”

“You’re a moron.”

Tony turns sharply. Clint is leaning back against one of the work tables, his eyes on the ceiling. 

“Okay. I don’t do this, got it?” Clint waves between him and Tony. “The pining thing. Act on your feelings or don’t, you know?”

“I did act!”

“In the _wrong direction_.”

“What?”

“Remember that whole thing Nat wrote about you being impulsive? Not just dangerous because you’ve got a high-powered wearable tank. You ever think about what would happen on missions if you fucked a teammate and then blew them off the next day?”

“Steve wouldn’t—”

“No, _Steve_ wouldn’t, but that’s because _he_ has a bad case of pathological altruism.” 

“Is that what’s in his file?”

“Focus, Stark.”

“Fine,” Tony snaps. “Fine. I’m a fucking mess, Barton, with enough daddy issues I could run the country for a decade if I figured out how to convert them into clean energy, and yeah, maybe a younger version of my father crashing into the workshop and joking around with Steve hasn’t brought out my best behavior.”

“And?”

“And what?”

Clint snorts. “And this is when you made your move. When Steve’s dealing with his past crashing back in—specifically, the past partially responsible for him becoming someone people finally notice.”

 _I’m not perfect,_ Steve had said. _I don’t expect you to be, either._

Tony opens his mouth. Shuts it. “I—oh. Shit.”

“Yep.”

“ _Fuck_.”

Clint pats his shoulder. “Get to work, Stark.”

“What do I even—”

“Oh, no, you’re on your own now. Got enough of my own emotional trauma to deal with.” 

“What _the hell_ , Barton—”

“Remember, no more stalker boards!” 

Tony swears loudly and kicks a trash can across the room. 

\--

Hours later and still coming up empty, Tony gets desperate. 

“JARVIS?”

“Yes, sir?”

“What do I do?” 

There’s a pause while JARVIS cycles through his knowledge base. “I’ve compiled a list of relevant articles on the matter concerning you and Captain Rogers. Might I suggest beginning with the following advice columns?”

“Might as well,” Tony mutters, picking up his tablet and settling into a long night of reading.

\--

It is, he realizes, both frustratingly simple and extremely terrifying.

Emotional honesty, who knew.

\--

Tony directs JARVIS to erase the security footage of his and Clint’s conversation. 

Clint Barton having a higher emotional intelligence than Tony Stark isn’t something the world is ready for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for Nat and Steve friendship in the next chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was all set to post this last week and then I decided Nat ought to have her turn at being an A+ friend. Hopefully, it's worth the few extra days :)
> 
> Implied sexual content in this chapter and going forward.

“Got a mission for you.” 

Steve looks up from his book. “We got a call?”

“Just came in,” Nat says, waving her phone. “Recon. Two-person mission, max.”

“Stealth?”

She nods. “No weapons, no quinjet. We’ll take your motorcycle.” 

Steve smiles, letting his relief bleed into it. “When do we leave?”

“Soon as you put on a pair of hiking boots,” Nat says. “Your go-go boots aren’t going to cut it this time around.”

“They’re not—” Steve sighs. “Yeah, okay. I’ll meet you downstairs in ten.”

Nat smiles and gives him a curt nod before she heads down to the garage. Once in the elevator, she takes out her phone.

_You’re up 💘_

_Acknowledged. Don’t kick Steve off a cliff._

_I can be very persuasive even without the kicking._

_🎯_

\--

They take Steve’s motorcycle, Nat navigating over the comms as they leave the city and drive into the wilderness. Nat directs them to a small turn-off that ends in a parking lot. 

“This the place?” Steve asks, looking around. 

“A little further in,” Nat replies. “Up the trail.”

“We have any prior intel?”

“Not much.”

“Any weapons on site?”

“No.”

Steve nods and they continue on the trail in silence. It’s a lovely day. The trail is empty of other hikers and Steve lets himself relax into the everyday noise of life removed from Manhattan. He ought to do this more outside of missions. 

The trail curves and ends in an outlook. 

“Okay,” Steve says, rolling his shoulders. “What are we looking for?”

“Your brain,” Nat tells him.

Steve blinks. “What?”

Nat perches on a log along the edge of the clearing. “Sit.”

Steve sits.

“Have you seen it?” She continues. “I hear it’s around here somewhere. Big-ass defensive shield in the way, though.”

“Hilarious.” 

“Thank you.”

“Why are we here?”

“Hiking. Didn’t people hike in the 1940s, Steve?”

“I don’t know; I had asthma.”

“What about after? I hear the Swiss Alps are beautiful.”

Steve snorts. “Fine, I suppose I did, but it wasn’t what you’d call relaxing. What with the Nazis.”

Nat smiles. “No time to take in the scenery unless it was cover.”

He nods. “You dragged me up here to talk about Tony.”

“Did I,” Nat muses, a glint in her eyes.

“Nat,” Steve groans. 

“You’re 95, Rogers. Use your words.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Steve tells her. “I thought we were getting somewhere and then Tony—” he stops. “You ever feel like the universe is just pulling out all the stops to keep you alone and miserable?”

Nat slings an arm around his shoulders and pulls him in. “That’s pretty self-absorbed,” she teases. “Even for Captain America.”

“You treat all your friends like this?”

“Only the ones I like best.”

“Thanks.”

Nat lets Steve straighten back up and pats his cheek. “Keep standing your ground. Tony will figure it out.”

Steve nods. “Maybe. I hope so.”

“Howard Stark was a brilliant scientist and changed your life. He was also a terrible father. With him dead, you and Tony were able to compartmentalize.” Nat shrugs. “Now, elephant in the room.”

“You know, he accused me of ‘shacking up’ with Howard during the war.”

Nat rolls her eyes.

Steve is surprised at the relief that sweeps through him. “I told him that didn’t happen.”

“Obviously. If Howard Stark wanted to fuck you, it’d be because you were some pretty little invention of his. Like guys obsessed with their cars.”

Steve barks out a surprised laugh. “You calling me a flying car, Romanov?”

She grins at him, and Steve finds himself laughing again until there are tears on his cheeks. 

“It really is beautiful up here,” Nat says after Steve’s breathing has returned to normal.

“Yeah. Thanks for tricking me out of the Tower.”

“Anytime.”

When they get back that evening, Tony’s locked in his workshop. Probably for the best, Steve decides, since he won’t be tempted to go to Tony rather than letting Tony find him. He’d said what he needed to. Now, Steve just has to hold the line. 

\--

Steve sleeps late and lounges around his room the next morning. Howard will be back to keep working tomorrow, and Steve wants to burrow into the most recent book he swiped from the downstairs library and pretend to be somewhere—someone—else for a while. 

“So what is the truth?”

Steve blinks, pulling his eyes away from the page and finding Tony a few steps into his room. He’s leaning against the wall, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that look relatively clean. Not been to the workshop yet, then. 

“Sorry?” Steve asks. 

“The truth you mentioned before. About Howard. What is it?”

Steve closes his book and sets it aside. He folds his arms. “Are we having this conversation?”

“Looks like it.” 

Steve studies Tony’s face. “Okay. Well, the truth is, to Howard, I’m a successful experiment,” he says. “His legacy, and a narrative he could control because I had the decency to die heroically.”

“He didn’t invent the serum. Erskine did.”

“Erskine was a German in the 40s. He died within minutes of seeing the results.” Steve pauses, letting his grief breathe. “People seemed to be most comfortable forgetting him.”

“But he’s so friendly with you. He knows…he can _read_ you.”

“And that bothers you.”

“Of course it bothers me. It’s like I’m seeing a Mirrorverse version of Howard Stark _and_ being gaslit at the same time.” Tony runs his hands through his hair. “No one would ever believe he wasn’t a good father, you know. That I wasn’t the luckiest bastard on Earth to be his son.”

“No one saw how he treated you,” Steve fills in. “So no one saw _you_.”

“Gold star.”

Steve is quiet for a few long breaths. “Thank you for telling me, Tony. I’m sorry that was your childhood.”

“Well,” Tony says with a shrug and sliding his hands into his pockets. “Got me to MIT faster.”

“I suppose it did.”

“Made my own family. Such as it is.” 

“Rhodes, Pepper, and Happy are good people. Worthy of you.”

“And the rest of you,” Tony prompts.

“The rest of us?”

“You think I let just anyone live here? You, Romanov, Barton, Banner, Thor? You’re all just the right mix of insanely-private-plus-a-death-wish for us to live harmoniously.”

Steve looks pained. “That doesn’t…seem harmonious.”

“Listen, Steve, you and I both know there are issues with thrill-seeking.”

“Well, that’s true, but—”

“I know I didn’t own this many knives before Barton and Romanov moved in.”

“Yes, but—”

“Thor is a literal god who first got tossed to Earth because he wanted to start an interplanetary war.”

“Tony—”

“And you and I have some serious issues on how quickly we jump to the sacrifice play.”

Steve frowns.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re not,” Steve mutters. 

“Don’t pout, sugarplum. This is what you wanted, right?”

“I don’t think _this_ is precisely what I had in mind.”

“Well, I’m a wild card. Always have been.”

“You’re more reliable than you think.”

“Careful, Steve. I have a reputation.”

“Are you worried about the playboy part or the genius part?”

Tony pretends to think about it. “Both. Always both. Or all.”

“Secret’s safe with me,” Steve assures. 

“I know.”

Steve smiles. “Tony, about Howard. He was always a good salesman and a showman. If you warranted his attention, you got it. But if you weren’t any use?” Steve shrugs, seemingly unbothered. “He knew me in the early days, before…well, before I really knew how to put up a wall. We were friendly, Tony, but we weren’t _friends_. Not like you and me.”

“Is that what we are?”

“You gonna give me a more compelling reason to put up with your shit?” 

Tony actually throws his head back to laugh at that. “I can think of a few.”

“I look forward to reading your proposal.”

Tony strolls forward. “How about a preview?” 

Steve raises his eyebrows and pretends to search the couch cushions. “I don’t see a projector set up. Is there not a PowerPoint Presentation?”

“Shut your perfect mouth, Rogers,” Tony says without any heat. “PowerPoint Presentation. What am I, the CEO of some tiny start-up?”

“Only if you read directly from the slides.”

“Well, I’ve taught you something at least.” Tony drops onto the sofa next to him.

“You’ve taught me a lot, Tony.”

“Steve. No more compliments, please. This old wind-up heart of mine can’t handle it.”

“Sure.”

Tony leans sideways and bumps his shoulder against Steve’s. “You busy this week?”

“Aside from hurling your father back through time without accidentally wiping more than just a few photographs and defending the Earth?” Steve shrugs. “Free as a bird.”

Tony’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Want to have dinner? Or whatever normal people do on dates.”

“Dinner sounds good.” Steve slips an arm around Tony, pulling him closer. “And I like normal.”

“We’ll make small talk about our favorite foods and childhoods,” Tony says. “Carefully avoid the topics of religion and politics until date two or three.”

Steve’s palm presses along Tony’s shoulders and arm, then traces his collarbone. “Maybe I’ll invite you back to my place.”

“Excuse you. I don’t put out on the first date.”

“Hmm,” Steve says. He ducks his head and murmurs against Tony’s ear: “I do.” 

Tony twists and grabs a handful of Steve’s shirt, yanking him into a kiss. They almost overbalance, but Steve braces against the sofa with one hand and hauls Tony into his lap with the other. Tony presses tight against Steve, slides his fingers into Steve’s hair and down his neck, clutches his shoulders. Steve chases Tony’s mouth when they break apart, only vaguely aware of his own breathless, desperate noises, each seeming to make Tony clutch at him tighter. 

“Jesus, Steve,” Tony gasps. “Do you have any idea—I want to keep you in bed for a week and just see how many different sounds you make when I’m touching you. Where I’m touching you.” He cups the back of Steve’s neck and his smirk sends a shiver through Steve. “What I’m touching you with.”

“Whatever you want, Tony,” Steve promises, voice low. 

Tony surges forward again. “God damn it,” he says between kisses. “We haven’t even—”

“We have all night,” Steve assures. “We can—whatever, Tony—” 

“All night,” Tony repeats. “The things I've been wanting to do since—"

An alert cuts off the rest of Tony’s sentence and they both jump.

“Shit,” Steve exhales sharply. “Well. I guess—”

Tony, frozen halfway off Steve’s lap, settles back down. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Tony.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“ _Tony_.”

“The rest of the team can handle it?”

“Regretfully, sir, you have all been called,” JARVIS interrupts.

Tony frowns and reluctantly gets to his feet. “We’re not done here.”

“No,” Steve agrees, trying and failing to hide a smile. “I expect we’re not.”

“You and me, some bed, post-mission.”

Steve loops an arm around Tony and pulls him in. He kisses him slowly, thoroughly, until he feels Tony’s body shiver. Steve pulls back, bumps their noses together. “A _lot_ of bed and dinner first,” he says. “I’m a little old-fashioned.”

“Jesus Christ, Rogers,” Tony groans. “You’re going to kill me.”

\--

A professor recently denied tenure decided to show his university how wrong they’d been and tried to use the Coney Island Ferris Wheel as a superconductor for…something. Whatever it was, it didn’t work before the Avengers arrived. Not even Tony is sure what the professor had been trying to do or why there were a bunch of mannequins stuffed with explosives scattered around the park. 

Steve has just called their moves over the comms when the whole thing blows up. They’re outside of the blast radius, just tripping the proximity alerts on a series of mannequin traps, but some kind of particle coats the professor. When the air clears, the professor is gone.

“Well,” Banner says across their comms from where he’s monitoring the fight in the quinjet. “That’s probably not good.”

“Anyone have a track on him?” Steve asks. 

“In the wind, Cap,” Tony says. “Think we’ll be seeing him again?”

“Sure,” Nat says. “Could practically hear him thinking _and your little dog too_.”

“All right,” Steve sighs. “Let’s get started on cleanup.” 

“What is it with people with PhDs?” Clint grouches.

“Publish or perish,” Bruce replies wryly over the comms. 

“Where does _turn a cultural icon into a weapon_ fall along that binary?” Clint asks. “Want to take this one, Cap?”

“What?” Steve replies, distracted. 

“Cultural icon turned weapon—seems like your expertise.”

“The Captain was a warrior first, even before your science blessed him with strength to rival my own,” Thor interrupts. “And therefore not a match for your theoretical meditations.” 

“Yeah, Barton,” Tony agrees. “Shut up with your theoretical meditations.”

Nat, close to Steve’s position, shoots him a look over her shoulder, one eyebrow quirked. She gives him an approving nod. 

Steve switches off his comm so no one hears him laughing. 

\--

With an efficiency Steve still finds somewhat terrifying, Nat makes sure Clint, Bruce, and Thor all clearly and verbally indicate their intentions to stay on their floors for the evening and how they will not be wandering through the communal entertainment room for any reason until the next morning.

Tony blinks at their retreating backs. “You ever wonder how much shit we’d be in without Romanov on our side?”

“I try not to think about it,” Steve replies. 

Tony nods, then turns to face Steve. “Want to watch something? We can order in.”

Steve’s gaze turns suspicious. “Not another Bond movie?”

Tony shrugs.

“Dinner, a movie? Sounds awfully normal.”

“Yeah. I hear you like that.”

Steve lets a smile spread slowly over his face. “I do.”

Tony grins back. “J will take care of the food. I’ll meet you upstairs after we hit the showers.”

\--

By the time Steve gets upstairs, Tony is waiting for him with a movie queued up and dinner spread out in takeout boxes. He hits play when Steve walks in: _Diamonds Are Forever,_ a petty bit of revenge. 

Steve gives him a look when he hears the familiar guitar riff but hands Tony a plate and settles in next to him.

\--

About halfway through the movie, when their plates have been cleared away, Steve slides off the couch as if it’s an afterthought and presses open Tony’s knees. 

\--

“You know,” Steve murmurs from where he’s tucked his nose against Tony’s bare thigh, Tony’s hand still clutched in his hair. “I think these movies are starting to grow on me.”

Tony manages a breathless laugh.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I discovered this is actually in 9 parts not 8 when I went to edit and upload what I thought were the last two chapters. So: surprise! today, there are three! This seems like a decent way to show 2020 the door and brace for 2021.

Each day, they get closer to rebuilding the accidental time machine, with a few alterations Steve insists on. Must not explode, must actually send Howard back to the point when he left. Tony bites back a comment about how picky Steve is, feeling the heat of it in his throat. He’s made his own rule for these next few days: do not flirt with Steve (more than usual) in front of Howard. Sex and sexuality were never mentioned by name in the Stark household, though Tony’s pretty sure a few of the parables his father shared over the years were sex talks in disguise, not advice on ethics, weapons technology, and technological advancements. 

Not for the first time, Tony wonders how he managed to grow (eventually) into a relatively well-adjusted adult who:

  1. has had one functioning relationship that, while still a bit tender to think about, moved into a working relationship without anyone leaking embarrassing footage online
  2. lives and works with a team of other adults with difficult pasts, but are able to navigate their own traumas without stomping (much) all over each others’ traumas
  3. is apparently now involved with a national icon, who is—again—a coworker, friend, and precariously stacked number of traumas squeezed into some very flattering tight true blue fabric
  4. (and when not in spandex, increasingly in tight white t-shirts and jeans as he adjusts to the 21st century and begins to wear flannel only in the fall and winter, not that Tony is complaining)



“You’re staring at my ass,” Steve murmurs to Tony as he steps close to hold a part in place while Tony solders it. 

“I always stare at your ass,” Tony replies, distracted. 

“This much?”

Tony shrugs. “Probably.”

“Tony.” Steve sounds like he wants to laugh. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice.” 

“In fairness, neither did I until the spies made a few snide remarks. Although it was mentioned I tend to stare at theirs, too. What? Don’t give me that look; I’m admiring peak specimens of the human superhero/Asgardian form. It’s like art.”

An interesting struggle plays out on Steve’s face before he concedes: “It is like art.” 

“Ha!” Tony flips up his goggles to grin triumphantly. “So, Steve, which life study do you like best? Titian? Rubens? Don't tell me you're a Botticelli man.”

“How did you manage to make a question like that sound suggestive?”

“It's a gift. Well?” Tony lifts an eyebrow. “Speaking of. You have a birthday coming up, right?”

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve hisses. “You can't--”

“I won't, I won't. Just tell me. Which famous artist does your favorite studies of the human form?”

“Degas.”

“The ballerinas?”

Steve shrugs. “They're dynamic. Even the sketches have movement.”

“Did Degas secretly do a lot of portraits of naked men sprawled out on silk sheets with biceps that would make Roman gladiators jealous? Because Pepper is always on me about being more serious about my art collection, and I have a certain vision.”

Steve clears his throat to cover a laugh, faintly pink. “Well,” he says in a normal voice as he steps back. “It’ll be interesting to see the results.”

Tony feels the suggestive curl in his grin and knows it’s a risk, but it’s all worth it for the way Steve’s eyes flash in return. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Steve says, still perfectly normal.

Howard watches him go, then looks over at Tony. “Something wrong?”

“Nope,” Tony says, turning back to his task. “Probably paperwork. Less glamorous responsibility of being the fearless leader.” 

“Better him than you.”

Tony turns back around. Howard sees his suspicious look and laughs. 

“If you’re anything like me, just the thought of paperwork gives you hives. Probably why I’m kept on as a consultant with no bureaucratic influence or responsibilities.”

“Aside from money?”

Howard shrugs. “Sure, but that’s still not a paperwork job.”

“Fair enough.”

There’s a pause. “I know I’m not supposed to ask, but.” Howard lifts his hands in a gesture that could mean _but what can you do_ or _but I’m Howard Stark_. “You been caught up in something like it? War, I mean.”

“Something like it,” Tony says carefully. 

“You know, they recruited me after a few of my inventions at the World’s Fair got some press.”

“I know.”

“Maybe cut your father before he’s your father some slack, huh, kid?”

Tony nods. “All right.”

“Well, they told me I could not only save the lives of young Americans who were fighting for justice but also the civilians caught up in the war, who were stuck between two armies trying to kill one another.” Howard stares off into the distance, the same expression Steve gets sometimes. “Introduced me to Erskine and his formula. Seemed like a great idea—a highly capable weapon, but only when necessary. Other times, a defense. And someone who was good down to their marrow.”

“But?”

Howard shakes his head. “Seeing that scrawny kid walk into the lab, boost himself into the casket? Christ, I thought he was a goner. Then again when the idiot convinced me to drop him behind German lines to singlehandedly rescue what was left of the 101st. Now I’m here, 70 years in the future, and find out Steve survived a plane crash and decades frozen. It’s a lot to ask of one man. Of any man.”

Tony doesn’t know what to say. The Howard he knew never expressed this kind of doubt about his work, never talked about Steve as anything other than unwaveringly heroic. It’s probably part of what made it difficult for Tony to first see past the ridiculous spangly outfit and set jaw to the man underneath: startlingly young and out of his depth in a new time, but who’d decided the only thing to do was pick his shield back up and keep fighting for the little guy. Nothing left to lose.

“I have a theory that Steve’s too bullheaded to die.”

It’s a peace offering and Howard refocuses on Tony with a startled laugh.

“Well, you might be right,” Howard allows. “Sometimes I think Phillips gave him the Howling Commandos because he knew Steve would never follow anyone’s orders.”

Tony chuckles. “Some things never change.”

\--

“Got a mission for you,” Tony announces the next morning before Operation Send Dad Back to the Future Part I resumes, waving a piece of cardstock with fancy calligraphy on it. 

“Are we getting cordially invited to villainous plots now?” Steve asks, trying to grab the invite. “Awfully classy for most our nemeses.”

“My money would be on Loki,” Tony replies, ducking away from Steve. “That whole space monarchy.” 

“Doesn’t seem to be any of the others’ styl—are you going to let me see it, Tony?”

“Hey, wait for your orders.”

Steve’s eyes do that flash again and Tony feels a hot twist of anticipation. 

“Is that the game we’re playing this morning.” 

“Okay, no fair using your smoldering voice. And smoldering face. Look—fine—it’s a Stark Foundation benefit for this weekend. I’ve got a plus one.”

“A date?” Steve asks. “Or work friends?”

“Date. A very, very public date.” Tony smiles broadly, but there’s an edge of nerves to it. “Up to the task, soldier?” 

“You don’t think it’s too soon?” Steve looks uncertain. “What about your reputation or…uh, stock value?”

“Okay, first, it is very adorable of you to try and understand how corporations work in the 21st century and their fucked-up ties to the personal lives of the CEOs and other high-ranking leaders within the company. Also if you keep pouting like that, I will have to develop a series of pet names for you and perhaps drag you into my bedroom to fool around until SHIELD gets here.” Tony takes a step backwards. “Whoa, down, Steve.”

Steve blinks, realizing he’s moved towards Tony. 

“Love the energy,” Tony continues. “But would like to catapult my not-yet-dad back in time ASAP.”

“Sure, yes,” Steve agrees. 

“Great. Anyway, I don’t give a fuck what the gossip circuit is gonna cook up this time around. If you’re not there, it won’t cut down on the lies they invent. If you are there, at least the lies will have some semblance of truth and—most likely—be less caustic because no one can make up mean stuff about you and not promptly burst into flames.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Steve says slowly. 

“Steve. One of the members of that hacker cell we took down last month thanked you.”

“I did stop him from being crushed to death by a giant robot.”

“Listen, my point is, it’s very difficult for people to say mean things about a war veteran who gave his life to save New York, was lost and presumed dead, and when recovered alive decades later, promptly saved New York again.”

Steve frowns. 

“I’m right.”

“I know,” Steve sulks. “What do I wear?”

“There’s a tux already in your closet.” Tony hands over the invite. “Pick up you at 6:30, handsome.” 

Steve’s hand closes over Tony’s wrist and he pulls him close. “That’s my line,” he says and then Tony promptly loses twenty minutes to exploring hypotheses about Steve Roger’s kissing technique and also his biceps.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Howard is not oblivious.

The way Howard figures it, there are only three possible explanations:

  1. they think he’s too dense to notice their friendly pats on the shoulder or chest linger a little too long to really be believably platonic;
  2. they think he’s so old-fashioned, he’ll write off any of said lingering touches as modern values and more freedom looking strange and wacky to crusty mid-century grandpa etc etc etc;
  3. and/or they are so goddamn in love with one another—and have been for a while, frankly, from the tension wrenched tightly up until a few days ago when, Howard assumes, one of them shoved the other into some room and they settled their accounts—neither Steve nor Tony realize they are utterly and completely obvious.

It’s too bad he doesn’t get a chance to talk to the rest of their team, Howard reflects. He’d be curious to know how long the two idiots have been circling each other. 

Steve is no different from who he was when he leapt onto that plane in ‘45/a year ago. It’s like he’s settled into himself. Still a smartass who doesn’t know when to back down, but there’s less of a need to prove himself. Howard supposes crashing a plane full of nuclear bombs and alien technology and then saving New York from an alien invasion after waking up 70 years later would feel like proof enough. For now, anyway. Still has his guard up around Howard, treating him with curious but careful warmth. It stings, but Howard swallows it. Why wouldn’t he be guarded, when it’s goodbye forever in a few hours?

Because it is just a few hours. The device is close to ready. They’re taking a break while Tony runs some calculations through a computer.

(“Don’t want to drop you five years into the Cold War,” Tony had said absently with a quirked smile and Howard had glanced past him to where Steve was standing, arms folded, eyes closed in resignation. “Not that…you should remember I said that.”

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Howard had replied. “Share anything about this little side trip, I’m sure to be locked up for my own good.”)

Steve looks over Tony’s shoulder, his hand on Tony’s back. He’s saying something too quiet for Howard to hear, but Howard can see the relaxed smile on Tony’s face, how his body leans in to Steve almost too slight to notice. And Howard has seen Steve make that same warm, open expression in Peggy’s direction enough times he could probably draw it from memory.

“Oops, have to take this—Pepper,” Tony says, hopping up with his cellphone in hand. “Don’t touch my stuff while I’m gone.”

Steve holds up both hands and backs away from the desk. Tony gives him a suspicious glare before ducking out of the workshop.

“Nearly done,” Howard offers into the silence. “If I’m reading these plans right, I’ll be back in ’46 by dinner.”

Steve’s smile is sad. “What’s on the menu?”

Howard shrugs. “Whatever’s left in the ice box. Unless you’re planning to send me home with leftovers like good future hosts not on rations.”

That earns him a laugh. “Between the team, we don’t usually have leftovers on hand.”

“Avenging is hungry work, then.”

“You know, I don’t remember Erskine warning me about the increased metabolism,” Steve says with a wry smile. 

“What, no one ever tell you an army marches on its stomach?”

“Might’ve thought more before signing up.”

“Sure. You’d have waited three seconds instead of two before making your decision.” Howard grins at Steve, who shakes his head in amusement. 

Steve’s always been full to the brim with sass, a sharp humor Howard recognizes as cultivated to shove back against the world when he was still the little guy. It’s part of what Howard first liked about him, how Steve would mouth off and stand his ground, even if it meant he got beaten into it. Erskine was right when he picked Steve. Rebirth needed someone who knew what it meant to be beaten. What it was like to get back up, spit blood in your enemy’s eye, and not back down for anything.

The Steve Howard knew in ’45 knew how to fight, but he didn’t know how to ask for what he wanted. This Steve does. Howard didn’t expect he’d be relieved by this knowledge. 

“Glad you finally figured out how to make your move,” Howard says. 

Steve’s head jerks up, surprised. “What?”

Howard nods to Tony’s figure on the other side of the glass, pacing as he talks. When Steve follows his gaze, a blush creeps into his cheeks. Howard watches Steve swallow, force back the embarrassment. The mask go up. 

“Don’t be like that,” Howard says, trying to soften the sharp edges with a gentle tone. “I mean it. Seven decades in the future, you ought to find some happiness.” 

“I thought you’d…well. You know.” Steve shrugs, as if that’s enough explanation. 

It is, but maybe only because they spent time together in a war when there wasn't much time for polite introductions and outings before one of you (Steve) was hauling the other (Howard), bleeding, out of a building collapsing under a Hydra weapon assault. 

“Hard to know who to trust?” Howard fills in. “No need to hide anymore, here; not like where I’m headed back to.”

Steve nods. “I loved Peggy. Still do.”

“Love’s not a finite source, kid. And there sure as hell are worse things in the world—my world—right now than a person who loves like you.” 

“Doesn’t seem to have been a popular opinion.”

“Well, if we’re going by popular opinion, then the whole world’s doomed,” Howard says. “Seemed to me, the decent thing to do was look the other way. Well, unless I was invited.”

Steve barks out a startled laugh. “Were you?”

“Now, Steve,” Howard starts, false severity. “What sort of gentleman would I be if I answered that question.” 

“You’ve always been a scoundrel in a fancy suit, Howard,” Steve shoots back, amused. 

“Too exhausting to pretend otherwise.” Then, before he can bite down on the words and keep them from escaping: “You know I’d come get you if I knew where you were. Soon as I got back.”

“I know.”

“But I can’t.”

“You can’t,” Steve confirms. “I have to wake up in this century. Help Tony lead the Avengers.”

“Wish you’d gotten your chance at a normal life.”

“Well, what’s normal?” Steve sighs with another wry smile. “Family, friends? A home to go back to? Didn’t have much of that before—seem to have done all right in the 21st century.”

Howard nods, taking this in. “Guess you’re just taking the long way around.”

“Something like that.”

“Don’t let him boss you around too much.”

Steve snorts. “You remember he’s your son, right?”

Howard shrugs. “I was hoping some of his mother was in there, whoever she will be. God help her.”

“Howard—”

Howard holds up a hand. “I’ve made mistakes, Steve. It’s clear I’ll continue to make them. Stark family tradition.” He nods towards Tony. “The only thing he gets from me is he’s a scrappy bastard. Christ, look what he’s built.”

“I think his inheritance might have helped,” Steve says. 

“Hell, that’s not something I can take credit for, either. All I did was manage not to lose it. Steve,” Howard says sternly, seeing Steve open his mouth. “Leave it be. I know who I am.”

Steve shuts his mouth. He nods. “All right.”

Tony’s computer pings and Tony is back in the workshop immediately after. He scrolls through the rows of calculations and the results JARVIS has pulled up on screen. 

“Well,” he says, finally. “Looks like your ride’s here, pops.”

“About time,” Howard replies. “Think I’ve had enough playing at intrusive in-law.”

Tony blinks, his gaze darting to Steve. Steve’s face is carefully blank.

“What,” Tony begins. 

“Hurry it up. I want to get out of here before the war’s over.”

“I—” Tony’s gaze has turned suspicious, but it’s still on Steve. He flaps a hand at a section of the workshop marked off and surrounded with some instruments. “Over there.”

Howard goes. He turns to face them. Tony starts up the machine, bright white whirring into a circle behind Howard. 

Howard grins, reckless and young, raising one hand in a mock salute, and for a moment, Steve sees that glimpse of Tony in him again. Then he’s gone.

Next to him, Tony lets out a long breath. “Steve. Do me a favor and make sure I’m still solid.”

Steve loops an arm around Tony and pulls him close, pressing tight against the line of his body. He hears the catch in Tony’s breath, can feel his heart speed up. Steve smiles at him, letting the silence stretch between them. 

“Seems that way,” he murmurs just as he sees Tony start to calculate the best way to wriggle free and shove Steve up against one of the metal tables. “Want me to make a more thorough check?”

“You know I think that would be best,” Tony manages in a strangled voice just before he grabs Steve’s face and yanks him down into a kiss. 

\--





	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Tony POV epilogue is pure silliness and fluff.

The gala seemed like a great idea, but that was before Tony considered just how good his tailor is and just how much of a thirst trap Steve Rogers is when he cleans up. Tony makes it through his usual duties on autopilot and then he’s excusing Steve from a conversation with a perfectly lovely—too lovely—young woman and hustling him into the limo and Steve is pinning him with that knowing look, god damn it, so Tony pushes him back into the seat and licks open Steve’s mouth until he’s panting and clutching at Tony and probably—hopefully—forgot whatever smart-ass comment he was winding up. 

Except now they’re at the Tower and both definitely not fit for polite company. Steve’s shirt is half-open, his bowtie loose around his neck, and okay, yeah, maybe there’s a bite mark on his collarbone, so sue Tony for indulging a little when super soldier serum will wipe that right away in a few hours. 

“Boss? I’m taking off now,” Happy calls through the closed door. 

“Tony,” Steve growls, flushing with embarrassment. “You are trouble.”

“Sure am,” Tony replies, cheerfully. “You planning to discipline me?”

“I—wha— _damn it, Tony_. Get up.”

“What for?”

“Because,” Steve says on a harsh breath. “If we don’t, then I’m going to fuck you on the floor of this limo instead of in your absurdly oversized bed.” 

Tony freezes, debating the merits of sex right here—which, to be honest, sounds pretty stellar. But then he thinks of Steve in his bed, the ample space to roll around in. The ample space for athletic sex and really, why pass up that opportunity when the person you’re having sex with is Steve Rogers? 

Point to bedroom. 

“Okay,” he says and barely has time to get his feet under him when Steve shoves him out the door. 

Steve strides towards the elevator with extreme purpose, Tony trotting along behind. Then they’re in the elevator and oops, Steve’s pants are open, how’d that happen, except Tony can’t ask, not with Steve kissing him open-mouthed and with an utter lack of finesse that means Tony has successfully short-circuited his tactical brain. 

The elevator doors open and Steve backs Tony through the penthouse to the bedroom without hitting anything—okay, maybe the tactical brain is still present, but Tony can’t complain—and once they’re inside, Steve shoves Tony up against the closed door. 

“You’re trouble, Stark,” Steve says again, pressing his nose under Tony’s ear—and breathing him in, fuck, this is too much—then kissing along Tony’s throat, under his chin, and murmuring, low and rough: “Take off the suit.”

In retrospect, Tony’s fairly certain he’s never undressed so quickly in his life.

He stumbles towards his bed, shedding his tux in clumps. Steve follows, folding his own shirt and bowtie into a neat pile, then hanging his jacket over a chair. Tony eyes him. 

“Should’ve know there’s only so many of your feathers I can rumple.”

Steve smiles and picks up Tony’s tie from the floor. “There a problem?”

“Suppose not.”

“Good.”

Steve’s hands are on Tony’s wrists and there’s a cinch of fabric. 

“Hey, _that_ is a thousand dollar tie.”

“You’re a billionaire,” Steve replies, unconcerned, and topples Tony backwards into the bed. “Buy a new one.”

“Holy fuck,” Tony breathes. “You sarcastic bastard. Why is that so hot? Damn it, Steve. That shouldn’t be that ho— _fuck_. Do more of that.”

“Bossy,” Steve murmurs. 

“Hypocrite,” Tony returns without heat and scoots further up the bed, dragging Steve with him. 

Steve kicks off his pants and nearly goes over the other side when his foot gets tangled. He lets loose a string of swears that are so detailed, they make Tony gasp with laughter. 

“ _Captain_. What would the American public say?”

“Well,” Steve says, pretending to think about it. “I think they might be distracted by the part where I’m in bed naked with Tony Stark.”

“Fair point.” Tony shakes the tie off his wrists and lifts an eyebrow in challenge. “You going to do something about it?”

Steve gives him an arch grin. He rests his palm gently on Tony’s chest, the curve between thumb and forefinger just below the arc reactor, and leans in to kiss him slow and quiet. The goddamn tease. Tony wraps whatever limbs he can around Steve and yanks, feeling Steve laugh into his mouth as he gives in, collapsing on top of Tony. 

It’s hazy after that, though Tony pins a few select memories. The press of Steve’s fingers in his lower back, how Steve gasped against his shoulder. How when Tony couldn’t stop talking, cataloguing everything he wanted to do with him, Steve had promised in a low, rough voice, _next time, Tony,_ and Tony knew he was filing it all away. 

Or, this moment, after: waking up in the gauzy early morning when Steve usually left for his runs and finding Steve still curled into his shoulder, deeply asleep. 

\--

In the weeks after Howard’s intensive-therapy-inducing visit, Tony keeps waiting for a change. A memory that wasn’t his before to appear suddenly or Steve vanishing and another Steve two decades older walking into the workshop to (re)introduce himself. Maybe several boxes of his debut science fiction novel, _A Match Made in Iron_ will arrive at the door, a photo of him with his hair slicked back like it's 2008 splashed across the back cover.

Nothing happens. 

He runs some tests, enlists JARVIS’s help piecing through what evidence he and Bruce gathered over the two very surreal weeks. 

“It seems, sir,” JARVIS eventually concludes, “that Mr. Stark’s memories were wiped when he was pulled back through time to the exact place he left.”

“He won’t remember anything?”

“If I may employ a simile, it appears to have been like pulling out stitches.”

Tony nods. “J, lock up this information, would you? Leave it off the report to SHIELD.”

“As you wish, sir.” 

Tony stares at the circle, still marked off, where Howard suggested he knew about Tony and Steve, then grinned and saluted before tumbling back through time, not even sure he’d land where he was supposed to. He could ask Steve what they talked about, Tony knows. Steve would probably even tell him. 

After a long moment, Tony leaves the workshop, shutting off the lights behind him. 

He won’t ask, Tony decides. After all, what’s the use of dragging up old ghosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, all, and thank you for your comments and kudos. They always make me smile.


End file.
